


Graviloquence

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [16]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Romance, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: "When I die —" says Hawke, and then no more, because Fenris walks out of the room.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Distant Shores and Voices [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/205946
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Graviloquence

**Author's Note:**

> [servantofclio](http://servantofclio.tumblr.com) asked for "Graviloquence, Fenhawke". 
> 
> Graviloquence: grave speech.
> 
> Note: death is referenced in this ficlet, though not graphically, nor is it literal.

"When I die —" says Hawke, and then no more, because Fenris walks out of the room. 

* 

She keeps trying. Over dinner, in their bed, working together in the garden under a high noon sun; nowhere is safe from those three words, which now chase Fenris like a fox biting the heels of a rabbit. 

_When I die. When I die. When —_

As if he would remain, again, when she was gone. As if there would be anything else, after. 

* 

"I'm not saying this to make you angry, Fenris!" 

"Yet you are succeeding admirably. What is the point of trying? Talking of this — there's no use. It is pointless, Hawke. Let it go." 

Tears hover along her lashes. No flame could rival her eyes, all the heat of a thousand summers burning, burning. "It's important," she says, small sharp teeth bared. She is so brave, so determined, even in this, dashing herself forever against the rocks. 

He stands on shaking legs. "I'm going out," he says, without looking at her. 

* 

Age found them both years ago. Hawke's hair is now silver, though it still falls in heavy waves when she lets it down at night, and her hands give her no end of pain. Too many years holding tight to a staff, and now the fingers curl inward if she doesn't take care to straighten them. 

Fenris has fared little better. He walks straight-backed in the twilight, but he tires so easily, and goes no more than two miles before he must rest along the riverbank. 

"It's not so bad," he says, though no one can hear him. Another sign of creeping age, this new habit; Hawke teases him whenever she hears him muttering in the kitchen or study. "Everyone grows old. We are lucky to do so." 

_When I die._

He is no fool. Death comes to all, whether they seek it or not. Forty peaceful years have well been worth the final cost: three children raised, without fear or hardship, friends scattered across half the world, the freedom of waking every morning and choosing, each time, how he will spend the day. 

A good life, and unexpected. If he could reach across time, to his younger self — but what could he say, that would do his life justice? 

_Be patient. Be strong. Do not falter. This will all be like a dream someday. Your life will begin when you cast off your chains, but you will only wake when you meet her._

Paltry things. Fenris watches the river until the sun is gone, and then stands and makes his slow way back home. 

* 

Hawke waits for him in the kitchen, half-dozing over a book. She startles when he comes in, almost upsetting the cold mug of tea at her elbow. 

"It's late," she says, neutrally, as he rights the mug. "How was your walk?" 

"Pleasant enough." He glances at the stove, where a heavy pot waits over a low flame. "You haven't eaten?"

An almost shy look, through heavy lashes. His love is the axis of the living world. "I was waiting for you, love." Her smile flares in the dark room. "Though it's just vegetable soup, so not much to wait for." 

Fenris sits down at the table, and takes her hand. Forty years of peace, and a decade more before that: he has never once been tired of her. "When you die," he says, pausing when her breath catches, "then my life is done. It is that simple, Hawke. It always has been. Where you go, so do I." 

She's still smiling. Her beauty has not faded, though it no longer cuts as keenly; what remains is much like a pearl, well-loved and familiar, glowing brighter with the passage of years. 

"And where should we go, love, when we die?" 

"I —" Fenris frowns, though Hawke keeps smiling, wicked and merry. "Philosophy, Hawke? Theology?" Neither have interested her much, though she happily took many contrary positions over the years, just to annoy Sebastian. 

"A simple question." She squeezes his hand. "Where?" 

"Somewhere…like this," he says, after thinking a long time. "Peaceful. Free. Without fear. And together, always." 

Hawke turns their hands over, and runs her fingers along his wrists. "Yes," she says, not looking at him, an unbearably wistful smile on her lips. "That's exactly it. Free, and together, always." She exhales, then sits up straight. "Fenris, do you trust me?" 

"Yes." A foolish question. What else would he ever have said? 

"Then promise me you'll listen to the end, and then you can shout or rage or anything you like. Just…let me say it all, and then we'll talk. As much as you want." 

He nods. Hawke leans over the table to kiss him, warm and sweet. 

* 

"You've been planning this for a long time." 

"Of course. Years, really. We won't have a second chance. But I'm sure of it — sure of the magic. When we die, it won't be the end. Just another kind of freedom, and we may choose the shape of it." She bites her lip. "You don't have to decide now. It's up to you, in the end. Whatever you decide, I'm with you." 

Fenris stares at his hands, at the markings glowing silver upon them. And he thinks, now that the first shock of her offer has faded, he knows just what form he wants this new freedom to take. A final reclamation, his last defiance. 

* 

They spend the last day and night, once Hawke's preparations are done, in the garden, and writing letters. One last sortie against the weeds, so when their children come home, the garden will be ready for them. 

As for the letters — "No details," Hawke says, over and over. "This is ours. My last grand display. No one else in the world will be able to use it." 

To their children, they leave their love. To their friends, they leave their thanks. And to Varric — they leave their story. He's the only one who would believe all of it. 

* 

Some say the river flooded its banks when a burning stone fell from the sky; others say a witch came out of the deep forest and sang it to fury. The end result is still mud, regardless of what side one chooses. 

But what they all agree upon, what they all swear they had seen, were two wolves — one black, one white — running against the wind, and out of the story. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/theherocomplex)! <3


End file.
